


The London Tower

by Misskinny



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Halloween 13, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Caring Greg Lestrade, Fluff, M/M, Protective Mycroft Holmes, Shapeshifter!Greg, Vulnerable Greg Lestrade, Vulnerable Mycroft Holmes, Witch!Greg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27273952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misskinny/pseuds/Misskinny
Summary: Sometimes when Mycroft is alone and his work is done for the day, he goes to his kitchen and talks to the birds outside his window. He does not expect one to talk back and leave a parting gift. He also does not expect a certain Detective Inspector Lestrade to ask him to dinner, or for the strange circumstances that follow both of these equally strange occurrences.Meanwhile in the shadows, a figure whispers “soon.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	The London Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! Thanks for coming to read my entry into the challenge A Halloween 13! This challenge/tumblr account was made by the wonderful vulpeapismellifera. Thank you Vulpes for letting me participate in this wonderful challenge!
> 
> The prompt I used for this story was from the wonderful PaiaLovesPie! Her prompt was; "Greg is a shapeshifter who can turn into a raven. He likes to bring gifts to Mycroft. Then Mycroft starts leaving gifts for him in return. An unlikely friendship is formed." So again, thank you Paia!
> 
> Now, without further ado; The London Tower

_“If you look at my previous email, you will see a detailed outline of this assignment, so if you would please not be a complete and utter imbecile and follow my procedures…”_

Mycroft’s hands stilled on his keyboard, glancing back at the sentence he just wrote before biting back a groan. _‘It appears my window for working while being diplomatic has come to a close.’_ He thought bitterly, daring a glance at the clock hanging above the door to his study. He winced. _‘It also appears I have worked the night away. Shame, I need to be on a conference call in two hours.’_

It wasn’t uncommon for him to lose track of time and work the night away. The Holmes’s were nothing if not insomniacs, but it had been a good three weeks since he’d last fallen victim to a night such as this one. With a sigh, Mycroft shut his computer down and walked it to the safe. _‘I suppose I cannot be too upset for this oversight, I managed to get quite a lot done._ ’

Even so, it was a very slippery slope for him to fall into, and not one he should make a habit of. The last time he’d tried, Anthea had refused to bring him her signature apple tart, a treat from a local bakery that no matter how many resources he used he could not find. That was _not_ something he’d wished to repeat.

“To eat, or get a few hours of sleep before the conference call?” He wondered aloud, stretching his back and wincing as it cracked under the strain. ‘ _The bed,’_ he mused while rubbing his sore wrists, ‘ _Sounds quite inviting. However, such a deed is not quite as favorable an idea as breakfast and a warm cup of tea.’_ Biting back a yawn, Mycroft moved his morning endeavors to the kitchen.

The kitchen was sterile, he noticed, and bare. He was hardly home for dinner anymore, not that he was much of a home cook on the best of days, but even he knew how to make a simple omelet. Rummaging through the fridge for some resemblance of breakfast, Mycroft found an egg carton shoved behind last night’s takeaway, chopped green onions most likely left over from Anthea’s last visit, and a package of bacon bits he’d attempted to forget about in the name of a failed diet. Humming a familiar tune he couldn’t place no matter how much he concentrated on it, Mycroft cracked the egg on the frying pan and watched the yolk sizzle.

While the eggs cooked, Mycroft looked out the window into the heart of London. He had a flat that gave a beautiful view over Hyde Park, close enough to the ground the birds still liked to perch outside his window. It was one of the better parts of his mornings, watching and listening to the various wild birds sing. It reminded him of when he was young and went bird watching with his Grandmere.

There were a few birds on the extended window seal, he noticed, hopping around and scouring for food on the ground below. With a hint of amusement, Mycroft reached to where a bag of peanuts sat unused from the last time Sherlock had broken into his flat. John had thought he was being clever in getting the man something easy he could snack on while experimenting. Sherlock, Mycroft knew, _hated_ peanuts, but coincidentally, so did his elder brother. When John’s plan had failed, Sherlock had thought it mischievous to leave it for Mycroft on the kitchen counter as a gift of his own. _‘Well, I suppose I will have to thank him,’_ He mused, carefully opening the window to not scare away the critters, _‘As I can now feed birds outside my window.’_

There were four birds either on the window seal. Two of them were magpies, he recognized, followed by a crow. There was also a common raven, the only one that hadn’t hopped farther away when Mycroft’s hand came into view. Seemingly, the raven was the daring one. Of all the birds the magpies flew off immediately, one taking to the sky and the other jumping to his neighbor’s window. The crow seemed disinterested and had promptly eaten the offered peanuts from where Mycroft had set it down on the window seal, then bolted. The raven, however, had made the effort of flying directly into his palm and eating right out of his hand, as if the safer peanuts on the ground were for fools. Mycroft watched in wonder and the raven ate up his share, the clever bird hopping from foot to foot before looking directly at Mycroft, and stared.

“Hello there, little bird.” Mycroft said, a rare smile taking up his face. Ravens were by far his favourite, clever, and cunning in all the right ways. “I think you’ve had enough peanuts.”

The bird did an odd thing, ruffling its feathers at him like it was huffing in disagreeing. Then, it titled its head, beady eye narrowing as if the bird was the one studying _Mycroft_. After a few moments, it seemed to come to some kind of conclusion because it righted itself and flew away.

Mycroft chuckled, pulling himself back through the window and closing it softly, but not before leaving another handful of peanuts for any wandering birds. Satisfied, he turned back toward the stove and noticed the eggs had blackened in its forgotten state.

Mycroft sighed in annoyance, _‘of course I would forget about the blasted things in the event of an interesting bird,_ ’ and quickly scraped what used to be eggs into the trash can. Not seconds later, two more eggs were taking its place. This time, he was determined to make them perfectly. No distractions.

A few moments later, Mycroft was broken out of his concentration of flipping the omelet by chirping outside. A quick glance telling him some other birds had found the peanuts stash. In fact, it seemed like the raven from before had come back and was—tapping on his window?

Indeed, the raven was ignoring the peanuts in favor of viciously pecking at the kitchen window. Even more curious, he seemed to be holding something in its mouth. _‘How odd,’_ Mycroft thought, but obliged the bird’s increasingly insistent demands and edged the window back up. “Hello again.” He greeted, watching with astonishment as the bird forced its way into his hand. “You are quite something, aren’t you?” The bird didn’t answer, of course, but merely plopped a gleaming metal object into his palm that Mycroft instantly recognized as a paper clip. _‘No,’_ Mycroft noticed as he examined the little clip closer, _‘Whoever had this object before had taken the time to shape it into a heart.’_

“Is this for me?” Mycroft asked in bewilderment, turning the object over in his hand. He’d heard of smart birds like crows or magpies giving presents to individuals they liked, and ravens were among some of the smartest birds on the planet. He supposed it wasn’t too far fetched he’d been given a thank you gift. “How kind, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Came the hoarse reply, and Mycroft bolted backwards, hitting his head on the window in his effort to get away. “Did you just…?” Mycroft asked, gaping like a madman, looking at the bird-like it held the world’s secrets. “Can you talk?” He asked, unsure what he was going to do if the bird said _yes._

The bird, however, stayed silent, pecking innocently at the leftover peanut shells that had scattered during Mycroft’s freak out. A few moments of watching the blackbird later, Mycroft let out an unsteady breath. “Right. Of… of course, you can’t talk. I’m just imagining things. Perhaps I’m projecting. Although, I never knew I _wished_ for a bird to speak.”

The bird still said nothing, observing the politician for another moment before ruffling its feathers and taking off, leaving a bewildered Mycroft behind. Vaguely, Mycroft smelled something that could only be burning eggs and turned the stove off without a word.

Perhaps it _would_ do him some good to get some sleep.

* * *

Mycroft watched with indifference as various onlookers and reporters were being hounded away from the crime scene where a man had been assassinated from an expert sniper shot from a nearby building. Mycroft sighed, cutting across the street and hoping he wasn’t stopped by a plebeian officer. Distantly, he tried to remember why it was _he_ was here instead of one of his underlings.

Ah, that’s right, sentiment. _Sentiment_ was why.

_Mycroft had spent most of his workday researching ravens, relieved to have learned the fact that apparently, ravens could mimic human speech like that of a parrot if raised in captivity. The bird from this morning was most likely an escaped pet who had learned to say ‘you’re welcome’ in response to the owner saying thank you._

_“Are you sure you don’t want me to go for you, sir?” Anthea had asked politely, not looking up from her blackberry. In their line of work, it was not unexpected or rude for them to have entire conversations without eye contact. “I am more than happy to.”_

_He knew she’d noticed how distracted he was today. The ever-present fear that he was surely losing his mind hadn’t quite left, even after all the research. “No, that’s quite alright.” He was already shrugging on his overcoat and refastening his watch. “It’s on the way to my flat. Taking a slight detour will be no trouble at all.”_

_Anthems nodded, silent for a moment before daring a look at Mycroft. “I heard Detective Inspector Lestrade is leading this case,” Anthea said, somehow managing to phrase it as an innocent question despite the fact they both knew it was anything but._

_Ah, two can play at that game. “Ah, is he?” He asked, feigning disinterest. “Shall tell him you said hello, then? Or, perhaps, the cordial young women from forensics?”_

_Anthea’s lips twitched. “No need, sir. Enjoy your outing.”_

And now, here he was, pretending he wasn’t wishing to see a man he had no chance of ever catching the eye of. Marvelous.

As he walked up to the police tape, the ever-present Sergeant Sally Donovan glared at him as he had insulted her mother. He found he couldn’t blame her. Usually his presence meant either Sherlock was on his way (or already here) or to take a case off the department’s hands. Part of him wondered which reason she hated more.

Either way, he’d give her due credit as she only gave him a stiff nod of acknowledgement and lifted the tape without a word. Mycroft gave her a small incline of his head in greeting and smoothly ducked underneath in search of the man in charge. Which, coincidentally, wasn’t hard to find as he was standing over the dead man’s body. “Detective Inspector?” He drawled when he got close enough to be heard.

Gregory Lestrade looked at him with surprise, taking a moment to answer. “Hey Mycroft, whatcha need?” He asked, wiping his hands on his clean suit jacket. He suddenly looked concerned. “Is Sherlock okay?”

Mycroft’s heart leaped at the thoughtfulness. Many times Mycroft had sought out the Detective to inform him of Sherlock’s latest relapse and ask for cold cases to keep his mind busy. The fact that Lestrade still cared enough for his brother to worry despite how much the younger man had wronged him over the years spoke volumes of Lestrade’s remarkable character. “No need to worry, Detective. Sherlock is well. Doctor Watson has proven to be an excellent caretaker.”

Lestrade nodded, looking relieved. “Alright, good.” He smiled that captivating smile that took Mycroft’s breath away. “What’s up, then?”

“I hope I’m not intruding anything.” They both knew he was very much intruding, but the DI was kind enough not to point it out to his face. “However, I am here to inform you I will take this case off your hands.”

He was prepared for irritation twisting in his face or _some_ sign that Lestrade was indignant or otherwise displeased, but the man merely nodded. “Yeah, alright. Had a sense it would be something like this, the victim’s throwing up a ton of red flags in our system already.” He gave him a grin, “Stick around for a minute, would ya? I’ll get you a file with what we have so far. No need for your team to redo everything.”

Ordinarily, Mycroft would decline as they did not need the Yard’s notes (they, without a doubt, had a suspect already, and one look around the crime scene told Mycroft everything of importance) but something inside made him want to comply. “Alright, Detective. I will wait in my car.”

He’d expected to be waiting for quite some time, but was surprised to see it only took twenty minutes for everyone to get packed up. Mycroft wondered whether Lestrade really _had_ suspected this case would be taken from his department, since it was clear most of the gear hadn’t been taken from its place of storage yet.

When the DI had made his way over, Mycroft had only gotten through half a cigarette. “Those things’ll kill ya, you know.” Lestrade said with a grin, leaning on the car besides Mycroft in a way that made his heart flutter strangely.

“If it is this that kills me, then I will be very surprised.” Mycroft drawled but still stomped out the cigarette under his shoe. Lestrade was quitting after all, and it would be quite rude to smoke in his presence. “The file, Detective Inspector?

Wordlessly, Lestrade handed him a thin file. “Like I said, red flags. We hadn’t been able to get much about him, but the forensic stuff we got so far is all there.”

Mycroft nodded, flipping through the file with mild disinterest. Unsurprisingly, they missed all the important details about the victim, but he supposed it could be overlooked… It _was_ an assassination of an important dignitary. These things were meant to be covered well. “Thank you, Detective. I shall—”

“You’ve already got a suspect, don’t you?” Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow at Mycroft. When Mycroft stayed silent, Lestrade grinned. “You do! No wonder you acted like you didn’t want this, this stuff is rubbish to you. Who’s the guy?”

“The ‘guy’ is far above your clearance level, Detective.”

Lestrade just rolled his eyes, but they held a certain kind of sparkle. Like a kid in a candy store. Mycroft would find it cute if it wasn’t about a potential terrorist. “Come on, you can give me _something_ , can’t you? You _are_ taking my case.”

It was a guilt trip, Mycroft knew, and very ineffective. Or, at least it usually was, since Mycroft complied and pulled a photograph out of his pocket with only a long-suffering sigh. ‘ _It_ had _been a police investigation,_ ’ Mycroft reasoned with himself. ‘ _It may not be Lestrade’s case anymore, but perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to have Lestrade look over the suspect.’_ “My team is running this man through facial recognition as we speak,” Mycroft said as he unearthed the photograph. “His facial hair is causing some problems, and we suspect he’s undergone plastic surgery. Currently, we can’t find a match—”

“That’s Giotto Olsen. Dammit, our team has been trying to get him nailed for _years.”_ Lestrade huffed, not noticing Mycroft’s look of surprise. “He’s a gun for hire and about a million other things. Knock me over with a feather if he’s in your system, he’s most certainly not in ours. That man’s the very definition of ‘got friends in high places’.” Lestrade ran a hand over his stubble, frowning as though this man’s existence was an offense to his character. Which, most likely, he thought it was. “You gotta be extra careful with this one, we’ve never got charges to stick, or even get him into court. Usually comes down to technicalities over keeping him a holding cell.”

Mycroft blinked at him, turning his gaze from the picture to Gregory, then back again. “You recognize him?” He asked cautiously, trying not to let the doubt show. Giorro Olsen… Mycroft had never been the one hunting him down, per se. The man had never committed a crime big enough to get on his radar before this morning, but Mycroft had unquestionably seen his picture before. Surely he’d recognize him before Lestrade would. “Are you quite certain?”

Rather than looking offended at Mycroft’s lack of confidence, Lestrade laughed good heartedly. “Oh yeah, I’m sure. I _never_ forget a face. Mind if I…?” Mycroft handed him the picture, to which Lestrade winked at him cheekily and started pointing out details. “He’s had some work done, that much is obvious, but he’d left his cheekbones the same. See? Very distinctive shape. Also, his jawbone is the same pointedness, and he didn’t even bother to wear _contacts_. That guy has the most recognizable pair of green eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Mycroft looked at the details he’d missed, putting together a picture in his head against the one already in front of him. Lestrade was right, there were a few obvious changes because of facial surgery, but putting them side by side left no room for argument. How had he _missed_ that?

“I—thank you for your help, Detective Inspector.” He said, a little in awe of this regular man. Despite Sherlock’s insistence on the Yard’s boring and ordinary characteristics, it was quite apparent Lestrade was anything but. “I shall relay this to my team. Hopefully we can catch him before these matter turns into a foreign affair.”

“Hey, no problem. Glad I could help.” The man smiled at him before it turned into something slightly more… animalistic. “You know, if you _really_ want to thank me, come to dinner with me.”

Mycroft’s head snapped to him, caught off guard. “Dinner?” He asked, unsure if he heard right.

Lestrade’s most confidence quickly turned into nervousness. “You obviously don’t have to. I just thought… Nevermind what I thought, it was stupid, I’m sorry—”

Mycroft cut off his rambling, intending to end his suffering by politely denying. Instead, he’d said, “Dinner sounds nice.”

“—just ignore…. Oh, really?” He seemed genuinely excited, which made Mycroft’s heart soar. “It’s a date, then? Wait, no, not a date! Sorry, I just meant like, ‘it’s a date’, and—”

“It’s a date.” Mycroft agreed before he could stop himself. ‘ _Damn it, what am I thinking? He is not interested in a date.’_ “You can reach me by phone, simply tell me when and—”

“I’m free tomorrow? At six.” Lestrade seemed oddly hopeful. _‘Could this possibly be…?’_ “Of course, I know you’re busy, so really anytime you’re free I’ll work out.”

 _‘Does he truly wish for this… dinner to happen so badly? He truly is willing to work around my schedule?’_ “Tomorrow should be fine, perhaps seven if that’s alright. I’ll send a car.”

“Yeah! I mean, er, yeah. Perfect. I’ll see you then?” Mycroft meekly nodded, unsure of his ability to answer the question without sounding like a complete buffoon. When the Detective walked away, Mycroft slid into his car and checked his pulse to make sure he hadn’t died and ended up in some version of heaven.

 _‘I, Mycroft Holmes, am having dinner with Greg Lestrade?’_ He thought distantly, trying to control his rapid breathing. _‘And it’s tomorrow. I’m not prepared!’_ He’d have to get a haircut, shave, buy a new cologne…

But enough of that. What on Earth was he going to _wear?_

* * *

“I won’t have time to come home before dinner,” Mycroft had told Anthea of the phone last night, digging in his closet to find _something_ suitable. “I must pick out what to wear the night before, which is _now_. And I have positively nothing of substance!”

He remembered distinctly Anthea releasing a puff of air into the receiver, the only sign that she was laughing and not completely serious. “What about the gray one, sir? With the blue tie. It will compliment your eyes admirably.”

Mycroft dug around a little more, pulling out the outfit she was talking about. An expensive cashmere suit in a striking light gray color, and with the dark blue tie… “Are you sure it’s not too much?” He asked, clearly anxious. “I do not wish to intimidate him. Or give off the wrong impression. Or—”

She cut him off, voice soft. “You’ll be just fine, Mr. Holmes.”

Despite the pounding in his heart, Mycroft took a deep breath to ease his frazzled nerves. “Yes, well, thank you, my dear.” He felt slightly embarrassed having a freak out with his assistant on the phone. He was not one to show emotions. “Remind me to give you a pay raise, I believe you deserve it.”

Anthea chuckled. “Thank you, sir. I’ll add it to my list. Now get some rest, I’ll remind you you have three separate meetings and two conference calls tomorrow, not to mention a date with a certain DI. You must be in your best shape tomorrow.”

“Not a date,” Mycroft reminded her. “But yes—er, thank you. I will see you at the office tomorrow.”

After that mortifying experience of showing such a weakness, he’d ended the call, dressed in a nightgown, and slept like the dead for twelve hours. Now he stood in the same gray suit to get a proper look in the daylight, fixing his tie just so and looking in the mirror with a sense of dread.

 _‘Perhaps Sherlock was right, perhaps I_ have _gained some weight.’_ He thought uneasily, turning to the side to study his midsection. _‘I’m confident this suit fit me perfectly the last time I’d worn it. When was that two months ago? Three? It was after Christmas, at any rate, so not the Holidays. Perhaps my workout is not doing its proper job?’_

Mycroft sighed, running his hands over his arms as if to brush the insecurities away. Gregor— _Lestrade_ , he was not quite on a first name basis yet, was strong and fit despite being nearly the same age as Mycroft. He knew it had to do with having the time to exercise on a daily and did not have a desk job like himself, but it did nothing to ease Mycroft’s self-consciousness. Risking one last glance in the mirror, Mycroft forced himself back out of the suit and into the shower, quickly following a need for breakfast. (While ignoring the suit still hanging neatly in the closet—he wished to evade it for as long as possible.)

He had no more eggs, having burned them all the day before, but Mycroft had a few protein bars still sitting in the pantry. _‘It may do me some good to eat healthy, anyway.’_ He thought with a sigh, taking a bite out of the bland bar and trying not to think of the bakery just down the road. _‘Lord knows if I am serious about impressing, or perhaps one day even_ dating _a man such as Gregory Lestrade, I can’t afford to look less than one hundred percent.’_

He was shaken from his thoughts by a tapping at the window, looking up to see the same raven as yesterday pecking at the glass to get his attention. Without thinking, Mycroft opened the window back up and watched, and the little thing hopped onto his kitchen counter and dropped a tiny baggie in front of him.

“What’s this?” He asked, picking up the clear plastic baggy to get a good look inside. There were two golden cufflinks slightly below his normal price range, but still quite expensive for a common man. “Where did you get these from?”

The bird stayed silent, ruffling its feathers as if to say _‘does it matter?’_ and gave him a look that Mycroft almost would have called shy. But, that was ridiculous, birds were not _shy_. “I’d say it matters. Did you steal these?” The bird blinked, making Mycroft blush. “Right, of course, you’re a bird. It was doubtlessly on the ground somewhere.”

 _‘They are rather nice_ ,’ he thought, taking more time to examine them. Whoever had lost these were certainly misfortunate. They had little stones etched into them, rubies which were coincidentally his birthstone. “Thank you, my friend. Shall I wear them tonight?” The bird let out a small chirp in what Mycroft could only call agreement, startling the older man. Nonetheless, he played along. “Well, if you say so. I perhaps think I should get dressed for work…” Mycroft trailed off, aware of his nerves coming back at full force.

If Mycroft didn’t know better, he’d think the bird noticed his hesitance. The raven snuggled into the hand still clutching the cufflinks and let out a questioning chirp. Mycroft didn’t hesitate this time, merely letting himself vent to the small but notable creature. “I… Well, this will sound rather ridiculous, won’t it? But I think I may have a date, or could one day _have_ a date, with a man called Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft noticed the bird freeze, oddly enough, but ignored it in favor of continuing. “He’s… I believe I’ve liked him for a long time, but I don’t know how he could _ever_ feel the same way. The man is tending and cordial and… quite handsome. I, however, am none of those things.”

The bird squawked indignantly, pecking at his hand hard enough to sting, but not hurt. “Mycroft good! Mycroft good!” It said in its raspy voice, staring directly at the older man who had gone silent in shock.

“I—” What to say to that? How could a bird, even one as clever as a raven, even _know_ to say that? “Thank you, little one. But I’m afraid it’ll take more than that to sway me.”

The bird ruffled its feather at him with a look that said, _‘you’re a bloody idiot.’_ Mycroft couldn’t help but chuckle, his anxiety flowing out of him like bathwater down the drain. “You’re too kind, little one.” The bird, seemingly satisfied with his change of mood, hopped back over to the open window and flew off, leaving Mycroft alone with his thoughts.

 _‘Perhaps it was a therapy bird?’_ Mycroft mused, closing the window. ‘ _Or, more likely, I am just going mad.’_ Either way, Mycroft couldn’t deny he’d formed a strange little friendship with the creature who left him gifts, like the one sitting on his window seal at this very moment. A button this time, shiny and handsome purple color.

He also couldn’t deny that somehow, he wasn’t as nervous about putting on the suit.

* * *

It couldn’t last long. Mycroft’s nerves were back in full force when he sat down at their reserved table, a local Italian restaurant that was shielded from tourist’s prying eyes. The place was small, quaint, and had the best risotto Mycroft had ever had, including his time spent amongst Italy’s finest dining places. The owner was a big, stocky man who refused to be addressed as anything but Nonno despite Mycroft’s insistence on using formal terms.

The man liked Mycroft for reasons he could never quite figure out. It could be any number of things; their mutual love of Amarone wine, Mycroft’s extensive background in art history, how he claimed Mycroft reminded him of the grandchildren he wished to see more often. However, the most likely answer would be because of their mutual dislike for Angelo’s. Mycroft preferred a place to dine where he was less likely to run into his brother, have access to better desserts, and a lack of criminal atmosphere. Nonno, on the other hand, simply despised the man for attempting (and succeeding) to steal his mother’s authentic south sea pearls. Which, interestingly enough, was the same case Sherlock proved that prevented Angelo from going down with murder charges.

_“Twas a shame, the lying rat could have been out of my hair for more than a few months,” Nonno had grumbled dishearteningly as he forcefully pushed the offered payment back towards Mycroft. “Though I believe I have your brother to thank for returning my treasured pearls.”_

_The man side-eyed him as he said that, causing Mycroft to look away to hide a smile. “I’ll tell him you said so,” He’d said with false disinterest, setting his fork onto the plate and prepared to leave._

_Mycroft never told Nonno that Sherlock had left the pearls in Angelo’s possession. The detective had taken a liking to the thief like a little lost duckling, something Mycroft never could fathom. He never said the police’s tipoff to the jewel’s location had nothing to do with the curly-haired detective, but Mycroft’s own resources. He didn’t have to. Nonno’s wink as he set down a panna cotta flavored with pistachios and raspberries to go told him clearly that he already knew._

He was broken out of his thoughts by a familiar voice near the front of the house. Lestrade was approaching, curiously accompanied by Nonno who was staring the man up and down like a hawk looking for prey. Gregory seemed more amused than frightened, smiling warmly at Mycroft. “Hey, My. Sorry I’m late, the traffic was terrible.”

Mycroft glanced at his watch. He was three minutes early, if anything. “No need to apologize. Lestrade, this is Nonno. Nonno—”

The Italian grandfather-turned-intimidator to Mycroft with a look that seemed offended, cutting off the man entirely. “Are my eyes deceiving me, Mycroft? Are you on a date and did not _tell_ me?”

Mycroft paused, surprised. “Er—” _Was_ this a date? It seemed like it _could_ be, romantic atmosphere, dressed in suits and ties, the promise of candlelight… He felt himself paling. Did he make a mistake in bringing them here? He’d merely wished to share his favorite restaurant, but… “Apologies, Nonno.”

Nonno searched him for a moment, but ultimately nodded. If Mycroft could guess, the elder man had seen his hesitancy to confirm or deny that this was a date and would act accordingly. “See that you inform me should this happen in the future,” He said decidedly, starting to walk away. He only got three feet before he turned around and gave Mycroft a devilish grin. “And Mycroft, sii più sottile nel tuo fottuto occhio, mia cara. Lo stai dando via troppo presto!” With that the man bustled off, taking two menus off the table with practiced eased and set straight for the kitchen.

“What did he say?” Gregory asked, watching as the man disappeared into the kitchen.

Mycroft blushed harshly. “Let us just say that Nonno may look like a sweet old man, but he is entirely _filthy_ with his words.”

Gregory laughed loudly, turning back around to look at where he’d disappeared to. “That’s my kind of elder!”

Mycroft smiled into his wine glass, offering a non-verbal ‘hmm’, admiring his not-date’s sharp jaw and toned arms. _‘A suit should not fit that well on another man_ ,’ Mycroft thought sadly, resiting the urge to look down at his own chubby body. ‘ _It shows off his muscles and lean figure astonishingly well.’_ Despite his (mostly) one-sided conversation with the bird earlier, he felt himself quickly returning to a state of anxiousness. “Please, sit.” He said stiffly, which was the most he could make out at this point.

Gregory promptly sat, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Thanks for taking me here. I’ve heard about it and always wanted to try this place, but I’ve never gotten the chance. Although, I am curious about him taking our menus. Did you order before I got here? Which is fine, I was just—”

“No, no, that is just how Nonno operates.” Mycroft said with a knowing smile, still eyeing the man secretly. ‘ _How could I ever compare to that?’_ “I only had it for the wine. I believe he will choose for us, or be making up something entirely. Don’t worry about the ingredients, I’ve already told him of your allergy to cocoa beans, so he said he would be especially careful.”

Gregory blinked, and Mycroft feared he may have overstepped. Sometimes he forgot that his mind worked differently from the rest of the world, but he was usually better about keeping it away from conversation, unlike his brother. He moved to apologize, but before he got a chance, the man grinned and pulled out his phone, appearing to be shooting someone a text. “Sherlock told you about the station Christmas party last year, I take it?”

 _‘Ah, berating Sherlock already?’_ Mycroft hid a smile behind his wine glass. “Not completely, but I believe I have heard enough to put a picture together. Contains, as you say, ‘swelling like a blowfish’, yes?”

Gregory leaned back casually and gave him an honest smile. “Swelling like a blowfish in the middle of my most valued officers was the _entire_ picture, mate. A few days and what was once terrifying to the receptionists was suddenly a screensaver on all the station’s computers, _including_ my boss.” They shared a laugh, “It was an entire month before I could get them to stop calling me an airhead.”

Mycroft set down his wine glass with a small ‘ _thump,’_ “Perhaps I should tell you of the time Sherlock snuck a bee colony into the backyard for experimenting. I took a few steps too close and…” He trailed off, shuttering. “I believe you can imagine the results.”

“Allergic to bees?” Gregory guessed, and when Mycroft nodded, he laughed along with him. “Ha! That man’s _obsessed_ with bees too, I can’t imagine anything worse for you. How many pets did he have of those little buggers?”

“Too many to count,” He admitted sheepishly. “I was terrified of going into his room for the longest time. I believe that’s part of why he did it, to be fair, especially once I’d run off to university.”

Gregory raised an eyebrow at the change of tone, “Pardon me for asking, but is that when everything changed for you two? University?”

Mycroft sighed, suddenly feeling reminiscent of old times. “I believe so. We were the best of friends when we were younger, even with such an age gap. We had our moments, of course, fights that were mostly due to our natural intellect trying to outdo each other, but we largely remained inseparable. I could never figure out why taking off to university was so different for him, notably since I’d gone to boarding school for months in the past.” He paused for a moment, lost in his head. “Sherlock got into drugs because what we’d had wasn’t there anymore. The games, the exercises, they were things I learned to cope with having a brain like this... I never could teach him the rest of my tricks. When he reached his twenties, the pressure was too much for him.” Mycroft’s jaw clenched, “He’d heard from his dealer that drugs could calm your mind, and he was so _desperate_ he just said yes.”

Mycroft sighed, wistfully. “Sometimes I wonder if I could have gone about things differently had I stayed at the house for a few more years.” Mycroft sighed, flexing and unflexing his fingers. “Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered in the end, I just—”

Gregory shifted so that his hand lay on Mycroft’s, startling him into silence. “Hey, none of that is your fault. You were a normal young adult in your twenties and went to university to better yourself, you never could have known any different. _Or_ what was going to happen.” Gregory gave him a reassuring smile. “I think he’s relearning a lot with John about what it means to be a good person, and part of that is what it means to be a good brother. He’ll see what you’ve done for him eventually, I know it.”

Mycroft stared at the man for a moment, then his hand, then back to Gregory. After a few moments of rather peaceful silence, Mycroft couldn’t help but voice a question he’d been asking himself since he’d driven away from the crime scene yesterday afternoon. “Is this a date, Detective?”

Gregory tilted his head, curious. “Do you want it to be?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, closed it, then went back to looking at his hand still intertwined with Gregory’s. To be on a date with a man like him, kind, generous, and very attractive… “I would,” He said cautiously, risking honesty. “But I don’t believe it’s realistic.”

Gregory didn’t let go of his hand. Oddly, it hadn’t grown sweaty or clammy, only more comforting. “Why not?”

“I’m hardly a catch, Detective. Inconvenient work schedule, the personality equivalent to that of a bolder, and I’ve found that I’m not the most… _attractive_ man on the market.”

Gregory scoffed. “Bullshit. The man I see is smart, kind, funny, and looks like a model in a suit and tie.” He paused, considering, before giving the man a wink, “Or, I would like to think, nothing at all.”

Mycroft felt himself blush but forced it away. “None of that, Detective” He muttered, taking a rather large sip of wine for courage. “I’d hardly call myself a ‘model’ compared to present company.”

Gregory frowned, taking a moment to look at Mycroft before answering. “You look _amazing_ in that suit, My. It’s me who’s nervous. The cheap suit, cheaper cologne, and I have to sit across from the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen? I’m grasping at straws here.”

“Please, Detective—”

“Greg.” He corrected calmly.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “ _Gregory_. I would appreciate it if you would at least be _sincere_ with me—”

“I _am_ being sincere, My.” Gregory said, as soft as Mycroft ever heard it. “You’re utterly beautiful. And even if you weren’t, I’d still want to date you, because you’re _marvelous_. You’re especially brilliant, certainly smarter than Sherlock, and undoubtedly better about it. You have a heart of pure gold, you do _everything_ for that bone-headed brother of yours. I’ve seen your heartbreak and I’ve seen how you have to mend it back together.” Gregory took a deep breath, leaning in and grasping Mycroft’s hands like they were the most precious things in the world. “I have liked you for a long time, Mycroft. Longer than you know. If you let me, I will spend every moment I have with you convincing you you deserve the world.”

The area around them fell to silence, Mycroft risking a glance into Gregory’s eyes to search for lies only to find them entirely genuine. He could not help the slight quiver in his hands as he gripped a little tighter, “Thank you, Gregory,” he said honestly, “But I believe it would take some time for me to even come _close_ to believing that.”

“I’ve got nothing but time.” The man said seriously.

They sat like that for a moment, communicating through looks instead of words until two large plates were set in front of them along with another bottle of wine, effectively breaking the moment. “Two of my special plates for the special couple, yes?” Nonno said with an enormous grin, clasping his hands together in delight. “Some of my finest work!”

Gregory’s mouth dropped open, marveling at the plate as if it was made of refined gold. “This looks _incredible_ , Nonno. And smells like it too. I already prefer this place to Angelo’s.” Gregory looked on the edge of orgasmic, dipping his breadstick into the marina sauce, humming appreciatively. “Seriously, this is amazing.”

Mycroft smiled at Gregory, then back at Nonno. He could tell the older man was preening under the praise and seemed to like Gregory even _more,_ if that was possible. “It looks lovely, Nonno.” Mycroft said, offering his own praise. “Grazie per l’aiuto, sei un angelo.”

“Nonc’è di che.” Nonno said with a smile. “Hai scelto bene, Mycroft. L’uomo ha buon gusto e un culo molto fottuto.”

Mycroft choked on his wine, silently cursing the Italian menace disguised as an old man as Nonno laughed and walked away to check some of his other tables. He felt a hand squeezing him as he wheezed into his elbow, blinking away sprouting tears. “You okay?” Gregory, the devil, seemed to be laughing too. “I did not understand a single word that that guy said, but whatever it was must have been quite something.”

Mycroft coughed a few more times, feeling quite certain his lung was on the chopping block. “Quite something.” He agreed, very aware his face was akin to the color of a tomato “But no matter, shall we?” He gestured to the food, and Gregory needed no further encouragement, digging into his pasta like a heathen. Mycroft found he didn’t mind the lack of manners. In fact, it was rather endearing.

“So, Gregory?” Gregory said after a few minutes more of stuffing his face with fettuccine. “We’re on a date now, right? I imagine we’re on a first-name basis.”

Mycroft studied the man for a second, slightly amused by his forwardness. “I do believe Gregory _is_ your first name.” He said with a smirk, enjoying the look of disbelief that crossed over the police officer’s face. “If you think I am calling you ‘Greg’, then you are sorely mistaken. Gregory is much more suited to you.”

Gregory, much to his delight, laughed. “Alright, Mr. Holmes, I won’t complain. It’d perhaps be nice to have a nickname from a man as beautiful as you, anyway.” Once again, Mycroft blushed hotly, but this time did not bother to argue it. Instead, he merely smiled and conversed until their plates were empty and Nonno made another appearance with a chocolate-free dessert.

“To share, of course.” Nonno said in a no-nonsense tone and set down two forks.

“Of course.” Gregory and Mycroft said together, shoving one fork out of the way and sharing a grin.

Mycroft had never felt so right.

* * *

As weeks went by, Mycroft settled into a strange pattern. The mornings before work were spent talking with a certain blackbird, expressing his feelings toward a variety of things. Most commonly, Gregory, who had also become a regular part of his life. Their dates were set to twice a week, the man always seemed to know when Mycroft was having a hard time or in need of comfort or when he somehow always knew when Mycroft was ready to take a step forward in the relationship.

On one particular morning after his weekly Tuesday date, Mycroft sat down and talked to the raven about his insecurities over the newly formed partnership.

“And he’s just… he’s perfect. And I don’t say that terribly often, so you know it’s true.”

Mycroft observed the raven nuzzle into his palm, making a purring sound that sounded much like a cat. Vaguely, Mycroft wondered if the raven’s previous owner had had a feline that the raven learned to mimic, or if that was something a raven normally did. “He is kind and sweet… And here I am, with issues a mile long that I don’t even begin to know how to fix. What man could want someone like—ouch!”

The raven nipped his finger, squawking indignantly. Apparently, the bird disagreed with the negative perspective on himself and had acted accordingly. Mycroft chuckled, reaching with his other hand to stroke the bird’s soft feathers. “Thank you, that’s very kind. I just can’t help but feel like he’d grow tired of me, of all the secrets and lies that comes with having a career such as mine. But… perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I need to trust him.” The raven chipped in agreement, or maybe that was just Mycroft projecting, but either way the way the bird’s feather felt on his fingertips left him steadier than he had been before. “Thank you, little friend. You area wonderful listener. I will see you tomorrow?”

“Yes!” The bird squawked, a perfect imitation of Mycroft’s voice from earlier, before stretching its wings and flying away, but not before leaving his daily parting gift; a smooth red-purple stone most likely picked up from the park. Mycroft had a small jar filled with the raven’s tokens, he treasured them dearly for a reason he could not understand.

Coincidentally that night, Mycroft found himself in Gregory’s apartment listening to soft words of encouragement and caring, loving, the man expressing just how lucky he was to have Mycroft in his life. Once again, the man curiously knew exactly when to show this side of himself, when to reassure Mycroft’s aching heart of how he really felt about him. ‘ _Was love meant to be this perfect?’_ Mycroft asked himself, moaning softly as Greg sucked lightly on his neck. _‘Was a_ man _meant to be this perfect?’_

He wasn’t always perfect, of course. Gregory had also made mistakes, something that eased Mycroft’s self-consciousness a bit. He’d never been afraid to admit them, showing up to his office with flowers and his favourite chocolates and explaining his terrible week and asking for forgiveness. Mycroft could never be too upset, he had done the same. He’d found himself sending cards to Gregory’s own office then meeting him at his apartment after a particularly nasty fight. Their relationship had grown stronger instead of falling apart in these moments, and even when those fights lasted days, Mycroft could always consult his beloved friend the raven who never held it against him even at his worst.

Life was perfect, his relationship even more so. For Mycroft, his life constantly a void of pain with brief moments of happiness, it was only a matter of time before something ruined it for the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what'd you think of chapter one? It doesn't quite get into the spooky yet, but just wait until chapter two! I plan to have it done by October 31st, but we'll see with how crazy my life is. It may be a late Halloween present... who knows?
> 
> Please leave any comments down below! I'd love to hear what you thought! :)


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